


Move-In Condition

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s05e09 The Messenger, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-15
Updated: 2003-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short piece written for the Fifteen Minute Challenge: Duncan or Methos says "No!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Move-In Condition

Every so often, Methos was reminded that his exceedingly antediluvian brain still resided in a twenty-something body, subject to the same basic human drives that young men the world over had experienced since before he was born. It was only to be expected; three months in a monastery followed by three days in the company of Duncan MacLeod was enough to test the strongest of men, and he had never claimed to be the strongest of men.

Bad enough that MacLeod's loft offered only a couch and no privacy. To make matters worse, there had been the morning workouts, which inevitably meant being coaxed and prodded into some energetic, male-bonding type activity like jogging or sparring or, god help him, practicing forms, the ultimate result of which was always a front row seat to the magnificent, gleaming, sweaty temptation that was MacLeod after a workout. Then there would be showers—thank the gods, but he was absolutely sure Mac must know what he was doing in there—and breakfast afterwards, Duncan's hair clinging to his neck in damp tendrils, his skin warm and vibrant and smelling like soap and aftershave, his bare feet on the bar's foot rail, the combination easily undoing any good Methos had managed to do himself in the brief refuge of the shower. Then Ryan had left town, and with him what little restraint his presence had imposed on Methos's vivid imagination; the last two days it had been just the two of them, a situation that didn't seem to bother Duncan in the least but that played hell with Methos's resolve. At least while the kid had been around, there was always the threat he might show up unannounced. With that threat lifted, Methos had only his own better judgment to rely on, and after two days, it had begun to waver dangerously.

This afternoon, as he'd sat at Joe's having lunch with the embodiment of sin, he'd decided that he really had to get his own place. He didn't much like hotels, and it would have seemed strange anyway, given that he'd never bothered with them in the past. What he needed was a flat he could rent by the month—preferably, one he could move into immediately, with furniture and all the amenities included. When he'd said as much, Duncan had seemed pleased, but whether that was because he was glad Methos had decided to stay in town for a while, or just glad to get his couch back, Methos couldn't tell. Duncan had offered to let him take the T-bird, though; Methos supposed that had to count for something.

So it was that he found himself in an unfamiliar neighborhood halfway across town, scanning addresses in the fading light as he babied the car along in first, then squinting at his own handwriting on the back of one of MacLeod's discarded envelopes. At last he spotted the number he was looking for on a rather unprepossessing building near the bottom of the cul de sac. A small circular drive led to double doors with an electronic security panel, the only indication the building housed flats, and not a shipping office. Well, it certainly was out of the way, not to mention unpretentious.

He parked at the far side of the drive and got out as a white coupe pulled in behind him. A stylishly-dressed man, mid-thirties, stepped out and came towards him. "Adam Pierson?"

"Yes, that's me. You Devon?" He held out his hand. The other man took it, his grip firm, unaffected, surprisingly warm. Brown eyes, Methos registered. Nice. Long, straight nose, short, black hair, stylishly cut. Good-looking. The handshake and the eye contact lasted only a second longer than it should have, but Methos's interest suddenly sharpened to a keen edge. Unexpected manna, perhaps?

"Devon Matthews. Pleasure. Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

"Got it on the second pass," Methos said, smiling.

Matthews cast an admiring glance towards the T-bird. "Quite a car you've got there."

"Not mine, I'm afraid." The flicker of disappointment in the other man's eyes was brief, but Methos caught it. Bingo. "Just borrowed it for the day from a friend who lives in the area," he clarified.

"Oh! Well, it's in beautiful condition. You don't often see them like that. But it's getting late—shall I show you the apartment?"

"By all means." He fell into step with Matthews, crossing the circular drive. "So," he said by way of making conversation, "you're into antiques?"

* * *

He liked the place. The floor plan was open, and offered a view of the cul de sac from the windows on the south wall, while the west side faced the water. The bathroom and kitchen were nothing fancy, but would serve, and he didn't hate the furniture. Having made his mind up, he stood at the bedroom windows, watching the last of the sunset; he heard Matthews' footfall behind him.

"So, what do you think?"

Methos smiled, and inclined his head towards the view. "It's an easy sell, isn't it."

Matthews' grin flashed. "Why do you think I wanted to meet you here at six?" His dark eyes sparkled with something a little mischievous, a little devious, the combination immensely appealing.

"A man after my own heart," Methos said, letting his interest show plainly in his voice, letting his eyes flicker down to Matthews' mouth for the barest of instants. "I'll take it."

"Terrific. We can sign the paperwork right now, if you like, or... are you in a hurry to be somewhere?"

"Not in the least."

"Then maybe we could get a drink somewhere, to celebrate."

"Sounds good," Methos countered, his eyes lingering now on the other man's quite delicious-looking mouth, "but maybe we'll do that afterwards, what do you say?"

His new friend was most agreeable.

* * *

"Oh, jesus—" The gasp broke off into a startled moan, which Matthews muffled against something—his hand, maybe—and Methos would have grinned if his mouth hadn't been quite occupied. Like riding a bike, wasn't it? Tasting skin would have been nicer, but given his good fortune, he wasn't about to be picky. He braced them against the wall with one hand, the other arm around wrapped the young man's hips, gripping him closer, giving no quarter. Matthews' cock slipped deeper into his throat, Methos's fingers curling into sensitive places, encouraging him. Matthews rode him hard for a moment, a handful of deep, rough strokes before he shuddered and forced himself to stop, panting and gripping Methos's hair to hold him still, pull him off. "Fuck's sake, give me a second."

"If you say so." Methos rose smoothly and started shedding clothes. Matthews leaned on the wall as if he needed the support, his shirt open, leaving nothing to the imagination. His other clothes lay scattered over the floor of Adam Pierson's new bedroom.

"Christ, where'd you learn to do that?"

"I hope that's a rhetorical question." Methos got his boots off, finally, and the jeans swiftly followed. Matthews' eyes widened with gratifying appreciation.

"I'd have to say yes," Matthews breathed, and was on him in a second, his body warm and smooth against Methos's, belly and cock and thighs rubbing exquisitely against his as the bigger man bore him down to the bed. Oh, God, he'd needed this—his nerve endings leapt and sang at the sudden stimulation, and he met the whole-body caress with enthusiasm. Even the unpleasant necessity of latex wasn't enough to distract him—Matthews was well-muscled, at least as tall as he was, and his weight and heat felt like heaven. Methos closed his eyes and gave himself over to sensation, aching to be sucked, or fucked, he didn't care which, as long as it was soon.

His cell phone rang.

Matthews stilled momentarily, but only as long as it took him to register and identify the sound—in barely more than a second he resumed his assault, thighs pushing Methos's apart, mouth caressing his throat, their cocks pressing hotly together. Methos seized the other man by the hair and pulled him away from his neck, kissing him voraciously in compensation.

 _Ring._

Matthews broke the kiss. "I've got another—"

"Get it," Methos ordered, flashing on the imagined sensation of fucking that hot, soft mouth. The one benefit of latex was that he might actually last more than the ten seconds that would probably do it for him. Matthews left him and went in search of his wallet, which had ended up somewhere across the room.

 _Ring._

On his way back to the bed, Matthews snagged the phone from the pocket of Methos's discarded jeans. "Want me to shut it off?"

"Yeah. No, wait." Fuck. Who could be calling him? There were only two people who had that number. Probably Mac, looking for his car. Or, less likely, Joe Dawson. Joe was as likely to be bad news as good.

 _Ring._

Bad news? Bloody hell. "Better give it here," he amended with a sigh.

A look of irritation flickered over Matthews' face, spoiling his looks for that brief instant. It was gone almost immediately, and he tossed the phone to Methos, who caught it, and hit the 'answer' button before it went to voice mail. "Pierson," he snapped. _And this better be good._

There was a little hesitation at the other end. Then MacLeod's voice, deep and sounding puzzled. "It's me. You okay?"

A tiny burst of relief detonated in the center of his chest at the sound of his voice. Irritated with himself and with MacLeod, Methos snapped, "I'm fine. I'm rather busy at the moment, though, Mac—what can I do for you?"

Another little pause, long enough for Methos to realize he was naked and very aroused, and talking to Duncan on his cell phone. This time the detonation of realization was a little bigger, and lower down, heat that spread through his belly and made his breath shorten.

"Did you forget about tonight?" Mac asked at last, sounding... if Methos didn't know better he would have said, disappointed. Matthews knelt on the bed between his feet and showed him the foil packet he'd retrieved. That mischievous, a-little-devious grin had returned. Dear heavens, Methos thought, they were making them in mint now? But Duncan had asked about tonight. What was tonight? Matthews' hand was warm on his thigh, perilously close to dangerous territory; Methos lay back, yielding to the subtle pressure. Dinner at Mac's place. The neighborhood benefit. Fuck.

"No! No, I didn't forget. Got tied up with the apartment hunting." Something cool touched the tip of his cock and he jumped, sucking in a sharp gasp. He glared at Matthews, but the man was shamelessly watching him. He started rolling the condom down slowly, and jesus, Methos was as hard as a fucking steel piston, almost trembling with it. Duncan, he remembered belatedly. On the phone. _Fucking bloody hell._ "Um, what time were we supposed to get together?" he managed, though his voice sounded high and breathless even to his own ears.

"Seven."

"And what time is it now?"

"Quarter to eight." A pause. "You sure you're okay?"

 _Fine, except I think I may give myself a coronary if you keep talking to me while this guy is playing with my nipples._ "Fine," he said aloud, having no idea how it sounded to Duncan. Matthews had gotten the condom on him, a subtle, tight pressure against his flesh, and it was easy, so easy to imagine Duncan's hot mouth around him instead, caressing him without any need for such mundane protections. Methos wanted to push Matthews away, to stop him from pinching and stimulating and—oh, god—licking his nipples. Or rather, he knew he should, but he couldn't quite seem to do anything but clutch the phone to his ear and close his eyes, fighting to control his breathing. "I'm sorry, Mac, the time got away from me. Can you get a ride with Joe, and I'll meet you guys there?" It took all his control to keep his voice reasonably steady. Matthews stroked the sensitive join of pelvis and thigh, and he had to stifle a moan.

"Sure. But listen, you don't have to come if you don't want to. I know it's not exactly your kind of thing. You're welcome to keep the car overnight if you want—Joe can drop me at home, or I can walk." Methos barely heard the last part, struggling as he was with the connection between the hunger coiling in his body and the word 'come' on Duncan's lips. God help him, he nearly had—was surely going to, if he let this go on. Matthews plainly thought the whole thing was great fun, and had shifted down to lie between Methos's thighs, promising more torments. Methos opened his eyes long enough to glare another warning at him.

"No, no, I'll be there. Just have to finish up here, and I'll be over." Matthews was still grinning devilishly at him. Then he bent his head, his breath warm even through the thin latex sheath.

"So you found a place, then?"

Methos drew a breath; Matthews' palm cupped his sac and the man opened his mouth and took him deep, no preliminaries, a tight embrace that made him shudder and stifle a cry with the back of his hand. Oh, God. Duncan—what could he hear? Surely they were making too much noise now. And how the hell was he supposed to talk when it was all he could do to keep himself from thrusting deep, from gasping Duncan's name. If he had dreamt up a torture chamber of unparalleled agony for himself, it could not have been worse than this particular torture. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. Matthew's hands were all over him now, and he ached for want of a rough, hard fuck, for a wet mouth and tongue he could feel to cool his heat, for Duncan's voice again, sweet and close in his ear.

"Yes," he managed evenly by a stupendous effort of will. "Nice place, nothing fancy." Enough, he told himself. For fuck's sake, _enough_ —stop playing with fire and hang up. "Listen, Mac?" ...no. No, no, no, bad idea. "Can you give me directions to the community center? I'm on the other side of the bay, near the interstate." Matthews bit him a little and he had to quickly stifle the gasp it wrenched from him. Fuck, enough. He pushed Matthews off of him, pushed himself back, and somehow managed to keep the phone pressed to his ear.

"You come over the interstate like you're going to my place..." The directions couldn't be that complicated—Methos knew he didn't have long. He shot an apologetic look at Matthews, then pulled the condom off with a wince. It tore, and made a faint snapping sound, but he was past caring. Duncan was saying something about watching for construction at the bottom of an exit ramp, God knew where, and he closed his eyes and took himself in hand, nearly crying out at the throb of response that coiled deep within him. He shut out everything but the sound of Duncan's voice, close and intimate, the rough friction of his own hand, and the desperate need to make no noise. In seconds he was on the edge, shaking with it; he had to turn his face into a pillow to smother the little gasps that tried to escape him. "Got that?" Duncan asked, and he couldn't answer, couldn't stop, couldn't... "Methos?"

This time the detonation was a star, sweet and hot and infinite within him, and he barely retained the presence of mind to hit the button that would end the call. He'd explain... something. Later. Duncan.

 _Fuck._

Pleasure and heat ran out of him, through him, waves of release that numbed him to all thought, all feeling save ecstasy and relief.

Finally, it was enough, and he regained enough of himself to open his eyes, face Devon Matthews, who had every right to call him ten different kinds of asshole. Methos's face was hot, but he couldn't really bring himself to regret it—he might never get such a chance again.

But Matthews was kneeling at the end of the bed, flushed, and as Methos met his eyes he got up and stripped off his own condom, disposing of it. Methos felt a twinge of conscience. He really did seem like a nice guy, and Methos hadn't meant to use him quite so blatantly.

"Devon—"

Matthews picked up his pants and pulled them on before turning to face him. When he did, his expression was ironic. "I have to say, I'd be insulted—but that was about the hottest threesome I've had in ages."

"Believe me, I didn't plan that."

"Yeah." Matthews smiled a little sadly. "Straight?" he asked, understanding behind the word.

The smile Methos found to answer him hurt more than he expected. "Does the Pope wear a pointy hat?"

Matthews nodded. His gaze swept Methos's naked form. "His loss." He turned away, collecting the rest of his discarded clothing.

Methos sat up. "Listen, let me make it up to you. Maybe tomorrow we can get together and take care of the paperwork, and I'll take you out for that drink."

But turning back, Matthews shook his head, and there was something in his eyes a little too much like pity for comfort. "I don't think so. My ego's pretty healthy, but a guy's got to have limits." He shrugged his shirt on and started buttoning it; Methos took the hint and got up, finding his own clothes and pulling them on. When they were dressed, and all evidence of indecency had been eradicated, Matthews handed him a business card. Methos would have laughed, but he felt achy, bruised, and at the moment his usual sense of the ironic seemed to be escaping him. Matthews said, "Call the office tomorrow if you're still interested. They'll set you up with a short-term lease, and you can probably move in this week."

"Thanks, I will." It sounded inane, even to his own ears, but he was at a loss in the face of the other man's matter-of-fact composure. Barely three decades to his name, and today he was miles ahead of Methos in that regard. Methos didn't want to think about what Matthews had been implying with his gentle rejection. Most especially, he didn't want to think about it when he had to face Mac in less than half an hour.

Matthews set the alarm, then let them out of the apartment. They stepped out into the cool night, and Methos stood at the edge of the circular drive for a moment, breathing deeply; Matthews started towards his car, then turned back.

"Listen, I don't normally give advice, but can I offer you some anyway?"

Methos wasn't particularly interested in his advice, but he supposed he owed the guy that much, at least. "Sure."

"Take it from somebody who learned the hard way—straight is straight. Don't throw away your youth on him. You can't get that back."

This time Methos did laugh. "Words to live by," he said. "I'll remember that."

When Matthews was gone, he climbed into Mac's car and started it, the Ford's engine giving a satisfying growl against the brick and concrete. Its vibration was soothing, a deep rumble that made you feel you could conquer the world. Devon Matthews thought he understood how it was with him and Mac, but Matthews lived in a different world, with different rules. He didn't know MacLeod, not like Methos did—didn't know his passion, his fire, his deeply sensual nature and willingness to try new things. He didn't know anything, really, and it was good to remember that. Perspective was a beautiful thing.  


 _the end_


End file.
